


Keeping Close

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, clintasha friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4904524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint had trouble adjusting to Phil Coulson's death. When it comes out that this was exaggerated, he has trouble adjusting back again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s not a thing. Not really.

Ok, so maybe it’s a thing. But the guy was literally dead for five minutes and reportedly dead for a lot longer than that, and Clint doesn’t have many people in his life that he trusts, ok?

Maybe we should go back to the beginning.

 

\--

“Sit down, Avengers.”

Fury’s voice is calm and controlled; a bit of a novelty when he’s in the same room as Tony Stark. There has been no need to assemble in the last few weeks, though – no possible way they could have pissed him off.

“You’ve all been cleared at SHIELD Level 7 for security,” he continues. Tony opens his mouth, but Steve beats him to it.

“What does that mean?”

Natasha re-crosses her legs, drawing the gaze of everyone in the room. “It means there’s information Fury thinks we should know,” she says. “Clint and I were level 6; unofficially, I imagine you were given similar status for Avenger-related information.”

She stares across the table into Fury’s one good eye, and it’s as if Black Widow is bleeding into the space where Natasha was just sat. “We’ve not changed our behaviour to warrant an upgrade. What’s happened.”

Fury tosses a plain, cream folder onto the desk. “Everything you need to know is in this packet.” He’s gone before Steve can win the tussle with Tony for first read, and really, that should have told them something.

 

\--

“Alive.”

It’s not really sunk in.

“Nat, he’s alive?”

Really, really not sunk in.

Natasha takes the folder from him, gently undoing his fingers. It’s bent, slightly, where he’s been clutching on to it. It’s just the two of them in the conference room now (Bruce had quickly disappeared muttering about needing space, Tony had swept out in a huff and Steve and Thor had both exited a minute later). He’s glad of it. He doesn’t really want his new team here witnessing this.

“Yes, he’s alive. And fine,” she places the folder back on the desk. There’s no need to flick through it again, but she’s feeling the same urge Clint has – to keep checking and re-checking those reports and pictures. How do they know this isn’t the trick?

“And SHIELD suck,” she adds, hoping to wring a smirk out of him.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says. He knows he’s not functioning on all cylinders right now just as well as he knows that’s not good enough. He’s a goddam Avenger, for Christ’s sake – not to mention a fully trained field agent and sniper.

Natasha just shakes her head. She stands, picks up the file again (it’s not the sort of thing you leave lying around for anyone to nose into) and herds him out of the room. They get all the way back to Clint’s apartment before the news really sinks in.

“Natasha, we have to see him. We can’t just-“

“We will,” she promises, taking his key from his pocket and letting them into the darkened hallway. “But he’s in China with his team. We’ll corner him when he gets back, figure out what’s going on.”

It’s not enough, but Clint realises there’s not much he can do right now. He lets Natasha baby him, as much as she ever babies anyone. He eats the leftover pizza she unearths in the fridge and drinks the can of Coke. He brushes his teeth while she potters about putting the box in the trash and wiping down the counters.

He’s on her list, he realises, just as much as she’s on his. She lets him see her like this because of what they are to each other; she doesn’t have to be the deadly assassin or superhero. Can just let her guard down and be Natasha, neatening the kitchen before bed.

He pokes his head out of the bathroom. “Can you stay tonight?”

She looks up at him with a warm smile, reaching into the wooden box at one end of his sofa, where she knows he stores his blankets. “I wasn’t planning on trying to get a cab in this rain anyway. It’s not the first time I’ve suffered your couch, Barton.”

“I meant with me,” he can’t quite look at her as he says it, and hopes she doesn’t misunderstand. People tend to assume they’re dating (or have dated, or have no-strings on-mission sex, or secretly pine for each other – generally him for Natasha rather than the other way around, maybe he should be insulted – you name it, the SHIELD rumour mill has come up with it) but it’s never been like that and it’s not what he’s asking now.

She drops the lid of the blanket box and looks at him. Something must filter across the air, because she steps around him into the bedroom. She grabs a t-shirt and some sweatpants from his top drawer and goes into the bathroom to change.

When she slides into the cold bed with him a few minutes later, she wraps a warm arm around his stomach and he relaxes for the first time since that folder hit the table. Most people seem to think Natasha is an ice queen, but they don’t know her like Clint does.

 

\--

The next day they receive a message from Fury, telling them to report to conference room 8. That’s the one out of the way, on the 12th floor; there’s not much foot traffic in the area, so it’s a reasonable guess that this will be The Meeting. Yes, capital letters required.

As they enter SHIELD HQ, Clint tugs at the neck of his sweater. It hadn’t seemed right to wear his mission clothes, but he couldn’t make himself throw on the scruffy jeans and t-shirt that make up his usual off-duty uniform. Instead, he’s wearing his best jeans; dark blue and a bit more fitted than his usual style. On top, a soft grey sweater that Natasha gave him for Christmas last year and that now feels like its strangling him as he takes in the receptionist’s confused glance.

“Friends,” says Thor. He and the rest of the Avengers are gathered in the foyer and there’s not even a hint of a boom to his words.

“We thought we should go up as a team,” adds Steve. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, dressed similarly to Clint. He’s not the only one who’s made an effort; Tony is definitely nearer the three-piece suit end of his wardrobe.

Clint nods in response, and they file into the elevator. For a second he wonders if it will hold all of them – Steve and Thor aren’t exactly small – but the doors close and if they’re a bit closer than they’d usually stand, well. Clint can’t help but be grateful for the soft brush of Nat’s hair against his chin as she stands in front of him.

They reach the 12th floor quickly. Too quickly; now he’s here Clint suddenly wants a minute out to think. He doesn’t think that’s too much to ask, but Tony sweeps to the right as soon as the doors ding open and the rest hurry to keep up until they’re outside conference room 8. Inside, he’ll see what the trick really was.

Tony goes to open the door, but he’s stopped by a strong arm across his chest. Steve just looks at Tony, but things really have changed between them in the last few weeks because Tony doesn’t even open his mouth, just drops back.

“Natasha, Clint,” Steve says, waving awkwardly at the door. Right. He wants them to go first. “We’ll wait out here – you guys knew him best.”

“Thanks Steve,” says Natasha. She reaches over, opens the door a few inches and slides inside. Clint glances round at the rest of them, before ducking inside as well.

He’s there. And he looks exactly the same. Clint knows that suit; it’s his Thursday suit. The three of them just stand in an awkward triangle. No one speaking and no one moving, until –

“I’m sorry,” Phil sounds beaten down, and now he’s looking at the floor. Clint isn’t sure how he thought this reunion would go, but he didn’t want that. He steps forward, and as soon as he’s made that first move it’s like he can’t stop. He throws his arms around his handler. He’s never hugged him before, he realises. Carried him, been carried by him (and dragged, Clint’s not exactly light) but always with the smell of blood and fear coating everything. He’s never had this warm, dry, _right_ contact.

“Fury gave us a file explaining everything,” breaks in Natasha. “We know you didn’t have a choice. We’re just glad you’re not dead.” That’s about as emotional as Natasha gets when people could be listening at the door, and Phil smiles at her over Clint’s shoulder. “Clint,” she adds. “We need to let everyone else in.”

Clint nods and draws himself away from Phil. It’s surprisingly difficult. As Natasha goes to open the door, he moves to stand beside Phil. He can’t quite help himself casually knocking their knuckles together, checking that warmth’s still there.


	2. Chapter 2

He's aware this behaviour isn't exactly normal, but Clint isn't exactly normal, so he's taking that as free reign. He's always crawled around the vents of SHIELD – if now he's using them to 'accidentally' bump into Phil... well, that's his little secret.

“Phil!” He's just exited the vents and strolled nonchalantly round the corner. Phil happened to be walking the other way, and Clint acts like this is just a nice surprise, not fifteen minutes of awkward high-speed knee shuffling through the cooling vents to overtake the older agent.

“Clint,” returns Phil, and Clint can't help the warm flush that goes through him. It's been Clint ever since he came back. If part of him misses the rough 'Barton' that was so familiar, another part just relishes the fact that he's broken through to Phil's first-name friend group.

Phil keeps walking, and Clint turns, matching his step. His left arms brushes against Phil's right with every step. “I actually wanted to see you,” Clint says, thinking on his feet. “Steve's been talking about upping the Avengers publicity profile in a good way, and no one wants to leave that job at Tony's feet.”

“I'm not the Avengers' handler any more,” Phil reminds him. He never really got around to it – he was involved in setting up the Initiative but before there could be need for an actual handler, he'd – well.

“Officially you still are, but I know you have other stuff to do now,” replies Clint. “But you're good at that sort of thing and I know Steve would value your opinion. As a concerned but objective kind-of outsider.”

They've reached Phil's office now, and as Phil drops down into the desk chair, switching on his computer, Clint falls backward onto the ratty couch. It's out of place for an office environment, but its been there as long as Clint's been with SHIELD.

“I'll have a think and talk to Steve,” Phil promises. “Was there anything else?”

“Hm? Oh, no.” It's the end of the conversation, but Clint makes himself comfortable anyway. He's good at being inconspicuous; he's not going to put Phil off his work if he stays here a bit longer.

 

–

“Coffee?” Clint has nudged open Phil's office door, and sure enough – there he is. It might be the wrong side of 10pm for working, but he's still slumped over his desk, scrolling through a document on his computer screen.

The wafting smell of the drinks reaches Phil and he rouses slightly. He looks like death warmed – well.

“Yes, please.”

“I got your usual,” Clint sets down one of the cups, a rich dark roast with plenty of cream. Then has a moment of panic. “Uh – unless that's changed-”

“It's perfect, thank you Clint.” Phil takes a deep breath of the aroma, then a long swallow. He looks better already.

“Are you, um, well – are you going home at all tonight, sir?”

Phil sighs and looks round at the stacks of paper on his desk. For a top-secret spy agency their paper trail must be ridiculous. “Honestly? Probably not. I'm heading out again tomorrow morning and I really need to sort all this before I go. Otherwise it'll just be ten times worse when I get back.”

“You're leaving?” Clint asks without really meaning to. He tries to look casually interested instead of strangely sick, heart beating too fast and palms suddenly sweaty.

“Yep, need to get the bus back in the air,” Phil hasn't noticed Clint's reaction, and he relaxes slightly. Phil looks tired.

“You've only been back three days. And you've spent all of that in the office. Don't you get a break?”

Phil smiles ruefully. “Unfortunately, we're too good at what we do,” he answers. “So they want us back working again as soon as possible.” Clint just nods and takes up his usual seat on the couch; a seat that feels too far away from the desk for comfort. Phil really needs a second desk chair. He takes a big gulp of coffee, but it tastes funny in his mouth; acrid. It's making his eyes water.

“If you want to help you could organise these,” Phil passes him a stack of paper. “There's nothing classified, I just need them sorted into subject-” he points at the top of the memos, where 'AIM', 'HYDRA', 'CENTIPEDE' or something referred to as 'JRL' are written, “and then within those subjects, order of urgency. Most urgent at the top.”

Clint nods, scoots forward so he's perched on the edge of the couch, and begins sorting the papers.

 

–

The SHIELD canteen is usually decent; too many operatives live and work here, relying on it for the nutrition they need to keep them going in the field, for the higher-ups to skimp on funding. But either the chef's having a bad day or Clint's not in the mood for food, because this lasagne is _awful_.

“No it isn't.”

Clint snaps his head up – he hadn't said anything. Across from his is Natasha, and he hadn't even heard her arrive, so he must be off his game.

“It's the same as it always is,” she adds, shovelling a large mouthful in. Clint idly hopes she burns her tongue on the cheese, but if she does, it doesn't show in her face.

“Guess I'm just not hungry, then.” His plate looks like a child's been at it, one who isn't allowed down from the table until they've finished their meal.

“I wonder why,” replies Natasha, forking in lettuce. Clint breaks.

“Ok – out with it. Whatever it is you want to say, because I'm not really in the mood for playing game-”

“You've got to stop.” She lays down her cutlery, and that's when Clint knows she's really serious, because Natasha does love the canteen lasagne and she's letting it get cold to talk to him.

“Stop what?”

“Stop _moping_ ,” she spits out, looking frustrated.

“I'm not-”

“Yes, you are,” she cuts in, in a tone that allows no argument. “And I know why, and yes, it sucks that we've just got him back and he's gone again, but that's what we do. We don't-” she holds up a hand when it looks like Clint is about to interrupt - “follow our superior officers around like lost puppies and cry into our lunch when they're not around.”

Right, so she's noticed then. That much he expected, but luckily, she doesn't seem to have found out about the bugs he set up in the bus just before Phil left. One in his office, one in the common area – he's not trying to be creepy, just make sure he's ok.

“I know,” he replies, and he does, but knowing that what he's doing is wrong isn't going to be able to stop him from acting like this. He _tried_ , he really did, but it feels wrong when he can't keep track of how Phil is. Like as soon as he's gone he's going to be really gone, again.

“Right,” she replies, going back to her food. “Use this time to get it together, Barton. He'll come back, and when he does, you're going to be normal.” She smiles, softening the blow slightly. “Well, as normal as you ever get.”

Clint smiles in return, but he can tell its fake and just hopes Natasha's too absorbed in her lunch to notice. He takes a bite of cold lasagne and it feels slimy on his tongue.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay with this chapter - rl getting in the way as usual! This is a little short, but the final chapter is written and should be uploaded by this time next week at the latest.

Tony has one of his brilliant plans. Well, Tony thinks it’s brilliant. He’s called a team meeting in one of the SHIELD conference rooms to discuss it. With Phil gone, Clint’s at a loose end and finds himself attending.

“It’ll be wonderful! You get out of this hellhole,” Tony waves a hand around at the inoffensive grey walls and dark blue carpet of the conference room, “I get to annoy Fury by stealing his best agents out from under his nose and you all get the house of your dreams!”

He wants them to move into his Tower with them. It’s still under construction, but apparently he’s sectioned off and completed areas for each of the Avengers to live in.

“There’s a full gym, of course, so no need to drag yourselves back over here for sparring - unless beating up junior agents is how you get your kicks, I don’t know-“

He’s still detailing the Tower’s many attributes, but Clint has zoned out. He doesn’t need a new place to live. Four walls here are the same as four walls there. But Tony has already got Bruce and Thor to agree, apparently, and Natasha looks tempted, although he doubts anyone but him would be able to tell.

“If it’s for team unity, I can give up my room here,” cuts in Steve. Well of course he can. Steve has been here less than three months, his room is practically a cell. And he keeps breaking all the punching bags in the gym; any more and Fury’s going to start making him buy them.

“Figured you would Cap,” Tony says with a dismissive hand wiggle. He looks pleased though, so perhaps he wasn’t as sure of their leader’s reception as he blustered.

“How is your security?” Tony beams at Natasha’s question and launches into a long explanation of the various safeguards in place. He knows her question is pretty much an admission that she’ll take up residence.

“… and I figured I’d put you and Barton in the same floor,” he continues. “You can keep all your spy stuff in one place and I know you guys are stuck like glue, or whatever – Coulson will have his rooms there too-“

Oh, ok. Clint hadn’t realised Tony counted Phil as an Avenger, but ok. He only realises Tony has wound down his pitch by the fact that everyone is looking at him. Natasha has a twinkle in her eye and a slight upturn to her lips.

“So?” asked Tony. “Can I make it a full set?”

It should bother Clint that Tony’s collecting them like action figures, but at least he’s being open about it. That’s how he find himself stood on a New York street, two days later, all his worldly goods in duffel bags at his feet, staring up at Stark Tower.

 

\--

Phil has been away for nine days and thirteen hours when Clint gets the news that he’s coming back (he may, or may not, have heard this through the bug in the plane's living area). He's not counting, of course.

“Don’t move,” he’s obeying before he’s even registered her presence. It’s just what happens after you’ve spent too long around Natasha. “You’re not running off to the landing bay. You’re staying here.”

She knows he’s back as well, then. She must have hacked into his own surveillance, because he can’t imagine she’s set up her own. She loves Coulson, as much as she loves anyone (as much as she loves him?) but this isn’t her style.

“Why? We can go meet him, that’s perfectly normal…”

“After you bugged his plane? Yeah, totally sane.” She drops into the armchair across from him in Stark’s communal lounge. She’s planning on keeping watch, then. “You know he'll have found them. Just for once, let him come to you, alright?”

There’s worry in her voice, and it’s that that makes him nod his head, drumming his fingers on the couch armrest.

“How do you know he’ll come over? He probably has to go to SHIELD, drop off his team, debrief. Then he might just go to his flat instead of coming over here.”

Her gaze is more than a little pitying, which he normally hates, but he’s feeling pretty shit right now and will take what he can get. “He’ll come over. He accepted Tony’s offer of rooms here. Saves on rent, given he’s on the plane half the time now.”

It’s another eight hours before the team turn up; they must have detoured by SHIELD for debrief, but instead of offloading his new entourage, Phil seems to have brought the new puppies home. Natasha is still staring him into his chair (they did leave briefly, for snacks around three hours ago) when he hears the babble in the entrance hall.

“Now can I go?” He’s well aware he sounds like a little kid asking permission from his mom, okay. At this point he’s getting used to it.

“Fine,” she says like it’s a hardship, but she’s rising as quickly as he is and heading for the door.

“Natasha,” Phil says warmly as he comes through the door. He's glancing over her shoulder to where Clint's hovering though, and Clint beams at him. “Clint,” Phil waves him over. It might not have been his intention, but Clint gathers him up in a hug all the same. By the time he's untangled himself, he realises that they've caused something of a bottleneck.

“I thought you might want to meet my team,” Phil says, unruffled as ever. “And they were keen to meet the Avengers.”

The names rather skip over him amongst the handshakes and smiles, but he plays along. Its easier to smile today than it has been recently. There are two young scientists that seem to be fanboys of Bruce – he thinks one of them might be called Fitzsimmons – plus a taller guy that keeps shooting glances at Steve, and, of course, Melinda May, who is turning to Phil with a wry smile he's never seen from her before.

“How about we leave the kids to it and go get some lunch?”

“That Thai place you like?”

“Its the best in the city and only round the corner from here.”

“Wrong again May, but it is pretty good. Top ten, I'll give you.”

“You're going out?” The scientists have headed off and the room suddenly seems far too quiet without their excited chattering. He can feel the tall man's dark eyes on him. “I mean, if you're talking about the Thai Garden, they deliver.” He tries to cover his statement, but he knows Natasha's not buying any of it.

“I fancy pizza, actually,” she says.” “JARVIS? Can you order from a few places?”

The tall man jumps at the disembodied voice, and Clint fights a snicker as Natasha leads them all through to the kitchen. He lets her order for both of them, slipping into the seat next to Phil as everyone peruses the various menus. The fold of his jeans is brushing the fabric of Phil's suit. There's no skin contact, and yet Clint finds himself stilling to prolong the connection.

He fights the urge to bury his head in his arms; he really does have a problem. He knows he's doing it; he's so aware of every millimetre between them, and yet he leans his chin on his left elbow. It takes him ever so slightly into Phil's space, until he can smell the rumpledness of his clothes, the faintest hint of aftershave applied hours before. It's familiar, and he breathes it in as his heart relaxes into rhythm.

Time apart does not seem to have helped.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! So sorry about the wait. I hope you enjoy it :)

“Phil,” Melinda’s tone is cool, but the fact that she’s used his first name rather than his last suggests something. “Something has to be done about this.”  


Clint is stock still in his air-vent nest. He’d expected the quiet sounds of Phil readying himself for bed, not an unexpected late-night visit. It’s why he’s in the location with no visual, because he’s not actually a creeper who watches his boss get changed. Now, he regrets the positioning.  


“About what?” Phil’s voice is mild, and Clint feels himself relax slightly. There’s no issue; if there was Phil would already know about it.  


“About Agent Barton.” Ok, that was unexpected. “He’s a problem, Phil, and if things carry on the way they are he’s going to end up causing bigger ones.”  


“Agent Barton is a qualified SHIELD agent, May,” Phil responds. Clint would lay money on there being no physical sign, but he imagines just an edge of ice has slipped into that tone. Phil has always been protective of his assets.  


“More than that, he’s now an Avenger. I think he solves more problems than he creates, don’t you?” May doesn’t seem to need to respond to that question. Clint can see her in his mind’s eye – that blank stare so favoured by superior field agents, but everything given away by her crossed arms.  


“You must have noticed how he can’t let you out of his sight.” Well, that’s a lie. Clint can’t see either of them right now. “He’s at your side every waking minute in HQ, he _bugged_ the _bus_ and he's no better now; in our line of work, this sort of reckless behaviour results in people dying.” He hears quick footsteps, as if she’s heading back towards the door. “Do something about him, Coulson. Or I will.”  


“You will not.” It’s quiet, but Phil has shifted, stationed pretty much right underneath Clint now. If he removed the ceiling panel he’d be looking right down onto that balding head. “The Avengers are my responsibility; that was never revoked. Clint is not a problem and there’s nothing to resolve. You can put that in a report, if you like.”  


That’s… well, that’s Phil pretty much giving May the keys to his destruction. Clint is bound to fuck something up, sometime, and here Phil has just taken complete responsibility. That’s pretty heavy.  


From below, there’s a quiet huff, followed by the sound of the door opening and shutting again. The sound of Phil, sighing, and the quiet shh of a drawer being opened. Before he really thinks about what’s he’s doing, Clint has unhooked the ceiling tile and dropped down into Phil Coulson’s bedroom.  


Phil doesn’t react to Clint’s appearance, still rifling through the drawer, except to say, “Should have figured you’d be up there.” Clint shifts, awkwardly. It wasn’t like he’d planned this, and now he’s here he doesn’t actually have anything to say. It surprises him though, when Phil picks up the conversation for him. It shouldn't; if there's ever been anyone to make him feel at ease, even before all this, it was Phil.  


“I’m sorry,” he says. “I assume you heard what Melinda said?” Clint just nods, one hand picking with the drawstring of his sweatpants for something to do. Somewhere to look that isn’t at his handler, although he can’t help his eyes straying to bare feet.  


“I wasn’t unaware,” Phil continues, apparently accepting that Clint isn’t going to make much of a contribution here. “But I also-“ he pauses; throws the pyjamas he’s unearthed onto the bed. “I also didn’t mind.”  


It sounds like an admission, and Clint raises his eyes to look into Phil’s.  


“I didn’t mind your constant presence,” he clarifies. “It’s not like it’s that new, really; you’d always end up in my office before anyway. And I’d missed you.”  


Clint tries, really tries to unstick his throat, to say the same back – _god,_ he missed him so much – but Phil keeps talking before he can get it out.  


“And because of that I allowed you to continue with self-destructive behaviour. Because I liked you _touching_ me,” Phil sounds disgusted, but at himself, not Clint for behaving so wrongly. “You bugged our plane. I knew about the bugs, and I allowed them to stay even though their presence could have got you removed from SHIELD’s roster. Because I wanted you to be able to hear me.”  


At this final confession, Phil turns away and Clint _knows_ if he doesn’t speak now, then that’s that.  


“I tried,” he forces out. “When you died, I tried to get on. I went to the therapy sessions, I sparred with Natasha, I ate my meals and I went to bed every night at 11.” Phil has turned back to face him, but Clint knows if he doesn’t get this out as one lump, it’s not coming out at all, and holds a hand up to stop Phil interrupting.  


“It didn’t work,” he admits. “Every night I saw you, and even though I pushed it away during the days, I couldn’t ever get away from it. From your empty office. From you.” He sinks onto the bed, runs his hands over his face a few times. “And then Fury gave us that fucking folder, with the pictures and your new team-“ his voice is almost choked, and what the hell? Get a grip, man. “I don’t know, something cracked, I guess. Nat had to take care of me that night and you know how good at that she is.” He says it with a wry smile, but Phil does know. He’s on her list too.  


“Then when you were there again – it didn’t solve it. I still saw you dead every night. Sometimes I’d turn around and think when I turned back you’d be gone. That you being back was the trick, not you being gone.”  


Phil walks towards him and sits on the bed, but they don’t touch.  


“It’s still like that,” he admits. “I’m not sure it ever won’t be. And I’m sorry, for everything. For being Loki’s puppet in the first place, for not being able to let you go – literally and figuratively – for breaking protocols left and right – “ He’s working himself up into an apology for everything he’s ever done wrong in his life, ever, when Phil lays a hand on his shoulder and the antsy feeling in his blood dials back down into calmness. “I only feel right when I can feel you’re alive.”  


The warmth of Phil’s hand is bleeding into his shoulder, and it’s this reminder that he’s been chasing for weeks. “I’m sorry,” says Phil, who has nothing to be sorry for. Clint knows it wasn’t his fault; that this whole ruse is on Fury, not Phil.  


“It’s okay,” he responds, and it is. He might be fucked up, fucked over, but Phil is here and so things are okay.  


“I’m going to have to go on missions,” Phil adds. “We have to work a way around this.”  


Clint feels cold, all of a sudden, despite the warm brand on his shoulder and the firm press of Phil’s hand. The cold deepens when Phil lifts his hand and stands, walking over to the chest of drawers. He rifles through it for a second as Clint tries to breathe and keeps his gaze firmly on Phil’s moving back. Just because he can’t feel the heat of his blood doesn’t mean it’s not there; it’s holding him up, it’s letting him walk back to the bed.  


When Phil sits back down, it’s with his whole side pressed up against Clint’s. “We can’t stop our lives because of what we’re afraid of happening,” he says. “Do you remember Stockholm?”  


Of course Clint remembers Stockholm. Well, he remembers parts of it. Bleeding out onto the back seat of a beat-up Volvo and the weeks of rehabilitative therapy to get his left leg back in working order, mainly. He nods.  


“That was… close. Too close. I had trouble letting that one go.” Clint looks at Phil in surprise, because there had been nothing in his demeanour at the time that suggested inner turmoil. “Because I almost lost you, and I realised then that you were more than just an agent. I saw you as a friend, from then on. Do you remember what you gave me, a month or two after you’d got back into the field?”  


Clint generally prides himself on his memory of missions. It’s better than Natasha’s, who always messes up the finer details.  


“You’d been out on a run with Sitwell,” Phil explains. “Tracking a small-town arms dealer in Germany.”  


“That was such a waste of time,” recalls Clint. “They could have sent a probie out on that one-“  


“It was to get you used to being out there again,” reprimands Phil, and the familiar tone sends a shiver down Clint’s spine. Phil must feel it, sat this close, but he’s nice enough not to mention it. “I sat on the other end of a direct comm link. Sitwell agreed to patch me through, even though there was nothing I could have done from HQ if it went sour. I did that a lot those days, to check you were safe.”  


Phil is fiddling with something in his hands, turning it over. It’s attached to his keys, but his fingers obscure Clint’s view.  


“When you got back, you gave me this.” He opens his palm, and resting there is a small, carved wooden arrow. Clint picks it up and runs his index finger along the length. He remembers finding this in a little touristy shop after they’d caught the dealer. “It really helped. Any time I thought you might be in danger, I could look at this. It was a link to you.”  


There’s a small pause, but Clint can’t think of anything to say. He wonders what’s wrong with him at the moment; normally no one could accuse him of being short of words.  


“I don’t know what my totem would be,” Phil smiles then, lighting up his face. “A clipboard maybe?” Clint huffs out a small laugh. “I thought maybe this.”  


Between his index finger and thumb is a golden ring. It’s simple, unadorned; a marriage ring. Clint takes it and runs his fingers over the smooth metal, still warm from Phil’s hands. There’s no inscription inside. He looks at Phil questioningly, not wanting to hope where hope would be misplaced.  


“Its –“ not often that Phil is lost for words either, Clint fills in. “It’s the wrong order, I know. But I think this is where this has been heading – its where I want it to head, anyway – and maybe a coffee or something first would have been-“  


Clint surges sideways, hitting his mouth rather too violently against Phil’s. But then Phil’s hand cups the side of his face, gentling the kiss, and he can feel Phil’s heart pumping against his own, and everything is okay. More than okay.

  


\--  


So, maybe it was a thing, after all.  



End file.
